


Something to Return to

by gwenweybourne



Series: Broken Toy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dead is the new sexy, Drug Abuse, M/M, Mind Palace, Oral Sex, Sheriarity, Sherlock in jail, jimlock, mindfuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-20 13:44:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6008749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenweybourne/pseuds/gwenweybourne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In prison for the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen, Sherlock awaits his final fate. Knowing his life may not last more than six months, Sherlock indulges self-destructive urges: using drugs and revisiting memories in his Mind Palace. Very particular memories. And when Sherlock Holmes goes to visit James Moriarty in the Mind Palace, the consulting criminal may very well see to it that Sherlock never leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel of sorts to Broken Toy, the Sherlock/Jim headcanon fic I wrote four years ago. Inspired by the exquisite Sherlock/Jim interplay in The Abominable Bride. Jim got down on his knees and pressed the barrel of a gun to his tongue and that was all my brain needed to get back into Jimlock mode.

 

“ _Two years! Two bloody years! I thought you were dead.”_

“ _Yes, John. That was the point.”_

“ _If you’d given me a sign. A message. A bloody smoke signal — I would have waited. You know I would have. I would have waited for as long as it took. I just needed to know that I was waiting for something.”_

“ _I … had rather assumed you wouldn’t require a message. You would just know. That I wouldn’t actually die that way.”_

“ _Like what, exactly?”_

“ _Like a fraud. A coward. That I would give up. On life. On you … on us.”_

“ _Oh, so you are arrogant enough to think you can choose how your life will end?”_

“ _I don’t_ think _, John. I_ know _.”_

“ _So, is this it? A guilt trip because I didn’t know that, despite having a dangerous profession that has you consorting with the deadly criminal classes, you mean to choose how you die?”_

“ _Simply facts, John.”_

“… _I never stopped caring … loving you, Sherlock. But I love her, too. I’m_ in love  _with her. And I’ve made promises.”_

“ _I know. You are an honourable man. A man of your word. I understand that. I respect it.”_

“ _Do you? Do you really?”_

“ _Did you not hear me the first time?”_

“ _Of course, of course. Sorry … two years of just talking to ‘ordinary people’ have got me out of practice.”_

“ _Yes, well …”_

“ _It’s not going to be that different, you know. We’ll still spend time together. Work on cases … when I have the time away from the clinic.”_

“ _Of course. We’ve already had two years apart. The adjustment will be minimal.”_

“ _All right, then. That’s … good. Glad we talked about this.”_

“ _Yes. Yes. It will be fine.”_

* * *

It had been fine. Well, mostly fine. The bit about things not changing had been a lie. Particularly after the wedding and the discovery of Mary’s pregnancy. But Sherlock had relished the time alone. Mostly. Time to work on his experiments and keep up on his reading. Work on cases. Without distraction. Without John’s prattling. Without … John. With … drugs. It would have been easier if he’d been able to delete the physical and emotional aspect of things. He’d tried, but found it was similar to other emotional memories, such as some of those from his youth. The impact could be minimized, but not fully deleted. Tiny infections he could treat, but not heal. There was a time when this had driven him mad, but lately he’d reconciled it as the price of admission for forming attachments.  _Having friends_. Much to Mycroft’s horror, of course, Sherlock had finally discovered some value in that which was scientifically unquantifiable. And certainly he would not have survived this long without them: the people who seemed to be able to bear his presence more than most.

And for that reason he’d sacrificed everything. To set Mary free. To keep her and John safe. And the baby. And any future victim that Magnussen targeted.

It was over now.

He was in prison. Solitary confinement. Magnussen was dead. Murdered at Sherlock’s hand. In full view of the authorities. There was no sweeping this one under the rug. No tradeoff of favours. Now Mycroft had to figure out what to do with his naughty baby brother.

And Sherlock had to figure out what to do with himself. Because he was bored. So very bored. But he did have two things at his disposal: his Mind Palace and his drugs. Everyone knew that prison was actually the easiest place to get one’s hands on narcotics. Sherlock’s main suppliers all came through the prison system. So that wasn’t a problem. Sherlock's network even knew how to breach solitary. Mycroft sometimes put too much faith in systems.

It had been nearly three years since Moriarty had forcibly initiated Sherlock into the world of sexual experience, which had had the unexpected consequence of bringing Sherlock and John together. And then ripping them apart. His encounter with the Mind Palace spectre of Moriarty during his near-death experience had stayed with him. He’d kept the consulting criminal under wraps. In the deepest, darkest depths. In a straitjacket and chains. In a padded cell. Darkest urges needed to be contained, but also kept safe.

 _You’re lonely, Sherlock. Is that it?_  a soft voice whispered in the distance.

_One is never alone in a Mind Palace._

_True, true. But there is a difference between alone and lonely. And there is a seven percent solution to that problem. You’ll have to come find me for the other ninety-three percent. So why don’t you fix yourself up and let me out … to stretch._

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock walked slowly down the hall. He felt no need to rush. He was at ease inside the Mind Palace. Virtually everything was orderly and he knew where everything was. All waiting for him.

Almost all, anyway.

All contained, at least.

Sherlock knew it wouldn’t be long. Moriarty could be anywhere, but when Sherlock entered the Mind Palace, he knew the only place he would want to be is near Sherlock.

Sherlock counted on this. Relied on it, even. More than he’d care to admit. Similar to the more recent surge in his drug use, even before the loss of his freedom. But none of that mattered. Not really. His life was worthless now. And so Sherlock could justify the slow bloom of opiates in his body. His nerve endings tingled as if he were being gently rubbed with a very soft cloth.

_Polished to a fine sheen._

_Need to look my best._

Outside the Palace. In the cell, Sherlock Holmes was recumbent on the narrow bunk that served as the only piece of furniture apart from the toilet facilities. One arm carelessly hanging over the edge, the pale flesh marked red by a strip of torn cloth tightly tied above his elbow. His veins still fat and prominent. A little bruised. His favourite spot would need to be eased off soon. But he had a system for that. A list of good veins to run through. Starting off with the easy-to-reach places that were easily covered by clothing. He rather hoped he would have a new distraction before he was forced to shoot between his toes and the back of his hand. He wished he had his own works with him. But the network could only realistically accomplish so much. They had managed to smuggle him a single needle, which he kept carefully hidden.

His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and quick. There was a folded piece of paper on the floor next to the bunk. For Mycroft, should the need arise. But this wasn’t meant to be a permanent vacation. Just an excursion to visit … a friend.

Of sorts.

Back to the Palace. The bloom was spreading even more and tiny tendrils of chemical pleasure unfurled in his brain. It made the edges of the room go a little soft, but that would even out before long. He let his fingers drag along the wall as he moved down the hallway, craving the tactile sensation.

And then instinct sang out to him as he passed a particular door. A half smile curled his lip as he paused outside and then leaned against the door, pressing his left shoulder and cheek against the cool, frosted glass.

He sensed a shadow on the other side and then a there was a soft creak, and Sherlock felt a gentle opposing pressure.

And then the voice. Muffled by the glass, but close enough to be in Sherlock’s ear. Achingly familiar. The timbre evoked a mixture of excitement and fear and dread and something else ... something Sherlock didn't have a word for yet.

“Miss me?”

“I set you free, didn’t I?”

“You call this ‘free’?” The voice sounded playfully disgusted. “I mean, sure, it’s rather delicious to go roaming around in your dark corners, but I’d hardly call it freedom.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked. A short silence followed.

Finally, the voice inquired, “So, are you coming inside or not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Boring. Even in your own bloody head you’re boring. You might as well just chain me up again for all the excitement you’re providing. Did you shoot too much this time? Fine line between the good high and just being another useless junkie on the nod, yeah?”

“What does it matter to you?”

“Matters? It matters —” Sherlock felt the door shudder as a body was flung against it from the other side. He turned to see a cheek and part of a mouth mashed up against the glass “— because I’m bored, Sherlock! You let me out to play —” a tongue extended from between lips, lapping at the glass and then wiggling lasciviously “— let’s play.”

Sherlock hesitated, then curled his hand around the doorknob and turned. The presence on the other side shifted to allow the door to open. Sherlock stepped inside. James Moriarty slowly raised his head, looking at Sherlock from under dark eyelashes, his mouth twisted in a predatory grin. “Well. There you are. At last.”

Sherlock looked down at himself. He could have imagined a few moments ago that he was wearing his coat. The weight of the Belstaff was comforting and yet now he was just clad in a white Oxford. Tight across the chest, though not as much as usual. He kept forgetting to eat from the trays Mrs. Hudson brought and took away again, _tsking_ her disappointment when they were untouched, but he tended to forget about that fairly quickly.

He looked at Moriarty. At Jim. Because he was Jim now. The man was shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of dark blue jeans that hung low on his slender hips. Sherlock’s index finger twitched, recalling how it had traced the shape of Jim’s bellybutton and skimmed over the indentation. Brushing over the trail of hair that led into his trousers. When Jim had taken Sherlock’s hand and thrust it into his pants, whispering hot into his ear. “There. Touch it. Yes … hold it. No …” he’d dug his fingers into Sherlock’s forearm and held it there when Sherlock had tried to retract it “… take it in your hand, Sherlock. It’s hard. For you. And I’m going to fuck you with it until you can’t remember where you live. Are you ready?”

He’d whispered _yes_. That night years ago. He’d held Jim’s hard cock in his hand and squeezed it and Jim had groaned and pushed his tongue into Sherlock’s eager mouth.

He remembered.

Jim was holding a glass of wine. He took a sip and cocked his head, looking at the glass. “So, what do we have here? Oh …” he looked down at his bare torso “… I see. Well …” He smirked at Sherlock. “Undressing me already? But I know this. I remember.” He glanced down at his jeans. “You changed the trousers, though. I don’t wear jeans unless I’m undercover …”

Sherlock shrugged, pressing his lips together.

Jim paused, then his eyebrows raised and a trill of laughter bubbled up and out of him. “The IT guy? Are you serious, Sherlock?”

Sherlock scowled. “All right, all right. No need to … I just —”

“—noticed,” Jim finished, swirling the wine, curling his toes into the carpet. “I turn up at a swimming pool … on a rooftop … in the finest-cut suits that money can buy and what sticks in Sherlock Holmes’s vast memory the most of all? A pair of discounted dungarees from Marks and Sparks. Tsk. And here I thought you were the biggest toff of them all. The trousers were khaki-coloured, though.”

“Dull.”

“Jim from IT was supposed to be dull. Dull enough for M-Hoops to think she could use him to manipulate you into being jealous!” Jim laughed and sipped the wine. “But enough of all that nonsense. You’re thinking about the last time you saw me after we fucked. The last time you saw me before I tried to kill you.”

“Again,” Sherlock amended.

“Sherlock, if I’d wanted you dead that day at the pool, you’d be long in the ground. With John. Nothing was  _tried_  that day. Only considered and rejected.”

“Maybe that would have been for the best,” Sherlock murmured.

“Hmmm, you think?” Jim snarled, flinging the glass of wine away. Sherlock watched the trajectory of the glass and liquid and noted with satisfaction how it disappeared before hitting the floor. Physical detritus was not a problem in the Mind Palace. Unlike at Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson complained about how it piled up so quickly but Sherlock had never really noticed. It all seemed to go away eventually if one was patient.

But then Jim was in his face, grabbing Sherlock’s chin harshly and forcing the detective’s gaze onto him. “Is this what I died for, Sherlock? I put my entire  _life_  into that show on the rooftop — literally! — and not only did you NOT DIE — and I'm still incredibly pissed off about that, by the way — and not only did you spend two years ripping apart the network that took me  _years_  to create, but you commit murder in front of the bloody police and your government troll of a brother and get yourself banged up. So tacky. You've let yourself slip without me.”

“Without him,” Sherlock muttered.

“Boring,” Jim whispered, leaning in closer. “So fucking boring. John. Mary. The sprog. All of it. Who the hell cares? That’s why you let me out, right? Nobody understands, Sherlock. Except me. It's just you and me now. The way it's supposed to be.”

Sherlock wrenched his chin free, but Jim held on tighter, like a python, curling a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck. His naked chest pressed up against the thin fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. Jim’s musky scent took Sherlock back to another place. Another time. Locked in a bedroom with Jim. And another time in a hotel bedroom. One time against his will and the other as an all-too-willing acolyte. The two memories got mixed up with one another so frequently that Sherlock had given up and allowed them both to share a room. The shame of letting his body's needs win out over his mental directives. How Jim had conquered him so easily. Literally fucked him into submission. Mixed with his hunger when he came back for more.  _More, more_ , he’d begged. Reaching for Jim again and again until the two men were too physically spent to continue. But even then they hungered.

_Put some clothes on before I decide to ravish you again …_

Jim grabbed the front of Sherlock’s shirt and Sherlock saw his taut biceps flex as he ripped it open. Buttons hit the floor (Sherlock liked the sound) before disappearing into the same void as the flung wineglass. Jim growled and buried his face into Sherlock’s neck, biting, sucking, smelling, tasting, marking. Sherlock groaned and clutched at him, raking nails down his bare back and grabbing at the waistband of his trousers. Pulling at him, but also pushing him away. _Go away and never leave me._ Jim pulled away from Sherlock’s neck and ground up against him, shoving Sherlock up hard against the wall and then Jim’s mouth was on his and Sherlock parted his lips eagerly and it was long minutes of teeth and tongue and lips and groping and hair-pulling and the helpless grinding, grinding, grinding ... Sherlock was shaking with need.

“Is this it, then?” Jim murmured against Sherlock’s quivering mouth. “Are you catching up on all those teenage makeout sessions you missed? All these memories of me fucking your brains out. They have to be for something. Right up here on the surface. I was your first, Sherlock. The first, the first, the very first and you can’t forget that, can you? Doesn’t matter how many times Johnny boy and you  _made love_ , or whatever it was you called it. You can’t forget me. Is that what you want? Me inside you. Taking you the way you really need to be taken?”

Sherlock panted and shook his head, instead, exerting pressure on Jim’s shoulders. Pushing him down …

Jim bit his lip, his great dark eyes sparkling with intrigue and locking on to Sherlock’s gaze. “Oh … oh! Well, this is new.” He went down easily, never breaking eye contact, settling onto his knees.

“Why didn’t we do this before?” Sherlock asked breathlessly.

“Oh, please,” said Jim incredulously, furrowing his brow. “Even with John under threat, I didn’t trust you to not bite my cock off out of spite anyway.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Fair play. I would have considered it. I thought sex was boring.”

“ _Thought_ ,” intoned Jim, gazing up at Sherlock.

“And the other time?”

Jim shrugged and smirked. “Honey, you were just so darned eager to give me the main course, who wants to bother with amuse-bouche? But this time … this is your show. So why don’t you give it to me.” Jim opened his mouth and let his tongue loll out in a blatant, lascivious invitation.

Heart pounding, Sherlock stepped forward. His hands moved to his waist and he unbuttoned his trousers and lowered the zip. Tugged down the front of his pants and pulled out his erection.

Jim smiled and let his tongue drag over his upper lip. He rubbed his crotch and nodded at Sherlock. “C’mere,” he said huskily. “It’s what you’ve wanted for so long, right? Me on my knees … begging for your cock. I know you think about it waaaaay too often these days …”

“Shut up,” Sherlock muttered, stepping closer, taking himself in hand.

“Make me, why doncha?” Jim looked up at him with a mock sad face, batting his eyelashes slowly. “I just don’t know what on earth you could shove in my mouth to stop my noise …”

His words trailed off as Sherlock took one more step closer and cupped Jim's chin in the palm of his hand.

“Yummy,” Jim whispered and he shuddered visibly when Sherlock traced the shape of Jim's lips with the leaking head. He licked his lips and tried to lick the shaft, but was taken aback when Sherlock tightened his grip and used his erection to smack Jim across the face.

He looked up at Sherlock, astonished, then grinned. “You naughty boy ... where did you learn how to do that? Have you been watching _pornography_?” Jim paused for a moment, concentrating. “Oh, yes, you certainly have. These are dire times, aren't they?”

“Be quiet,” Sherlock growled.

Jim batted away Sherlock's hand and looked up, irritated. “Then _just do it_ , for god's sake. You have me on your knees, practically drooling for your dick. But you should know better than to try to _dominate_ me, sexy. I'm indomitable. And you love me that way. Don't try to rewrite the story now. Even in your Mind Palace there needs to be some vague semblance of reality.” And then Jim obediently opened his mouth and angled his head up.

Sherlock had to concede he was correct and he shuddered when he drew closer again and Jim licked the tip of his penis, then wrapped his lips around the head and sucked hungrily before letting the shaft slide into his mouth and throat.

Sherlock sagged against the wall and looked down, amazed, aroused, and startled by the sight of his cock sliding between Jim's lips. And Jim's large liquid eyes gazing up at him. Sherlock reached down and traced his finger around the shape of Jim's jaw, then over his cheek, feeling it hollow slightly as he sucked. His fingers ran through Jim's short, dark hair and Sherlock found himself cradling the smaller man's skull. There was something perverse about this. As if he could hold Moriarty's mind – his impossible, incredible mind – in his hand even as he fucked his mouth. He heard a choking sound and realized his hips were thrusting, forcing himself deep into Jim's throat. Slightly alarmed, he pulled back. Jim chuckled roughly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Pity,” he intoned. “I was just starting to enjoy myself.”

“Why are you like this?” Sherlock asked, crossly. “I mean, honestly ... why?”

Jim licked his lips and shrugged. “Dunno. But shouldn't you know that? You're the one that made me. And don't you think you'd like to sit down now?”

“Well, yes, I ...” Sherlock shifted and realized a large, overstuffed chair had appeared and he sank down into it. Jim crawled over on his knees and moved in between Sherlock's legs.

“Thinking too much again,” Jim murmured, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's flagging erection. “Thinking, thinking, thinking ... whatever shall I do with you, my Sherlock.” He leaned in and kissed Sherlock then and the next few minutes he expertly fucked Sherlock's mouth with his tongue and stroked his cock until Sherlock was writhing, panting, pleading. And when Jim bit him on the ear and then dove down to suck him furiously again, Sherlock cried out in pleasured agony, clutching the arms of the chair.

Jim lifted his head, panting and whispered, “Watch now, Sherlock. Don't miss this. In porn they call this the money shot.” And he positioned his head and opened his mouth and Sherlock came on Jim's face and into his mouth and it was grotesque and thrilling at the same time. He closed his eyes and sagged into the chair, unconsciously rubbing the back of Jim's neck. And when he opened his eyes again, Jim's face – clean of any spunk – was inches from his. He'd climbed into the chair and Sherlock shifting, slipping his arms around the smaller man's frame.

“You can't go yet,” Sherlock murmured.

“I know. This is the genius of the Mind Palace. We're not far from one another. Ever. I like it.”

“You would.”

“I think you will too. If you'll just let me out to play a little more.” Jim reached out and traced the shape of Sherlock's clavicle. Sherlock circled one of Jim's nipples with the pad of his finger. Each regarded the touch of the other, fascinated.

“I may not survive if I let you do that.”

Jim sucked Sherlock's fingertip into his mouth and then replaced it on his nipple. “Dead is the new sexy. What has being alive done for you lately? Tell me this isn't the best time you've had since your last murder case.”

Sherlock nuzzled into Jim's neck to breathe in his scent. His hand slid slowly into the waistband of Jim's jeans. “I could lie but I won't.”

Jim shuddered, chuckling. “Oh-ho. Hungry again already, are we?”

“The usual rules don't apply here. Lucky us.” Sherlock's voice was muffled against Jim's neck.

Jim's hips twitched as Sherlock fondled him, teasing his cock. Jim groaned softly and bit Sherlock's neck, playing with his nipples. “You could die this way, you know. Lost in your Mind Palace. Having sex with me for eternity. Because it's easier than thinking, isn't it?”

“It's probably better than morphine,” Sherlock conceded, arching up with a soft gasp as Jim bit and sucked on a hard nipple. “I'm sure Mycroft would agree.”

Jim tugged Sherlock's hand out of his jeans and unzipped then. “Take your pants off. You're still thinking enough to remember Ol' Fatty's name.”

Sherlock complied and before he knew it, Jim had tugged him to straddle his lap and was pushing his cock deep inside. Sherlock gasped and arched, shivering as Jim dug his fingers into Sherlock's hips and licked across his chest. “Oh, yes, the rules are definitely different here. Nicely done. I slipped right in there. Now just tell me that I can have infinite hard-ons and we'll truly make this a night to remember.”

Sherlock began to rock his hips and Jim hissed, driving up deep into him. “If you're good,” Sherlock gasped.

“Oh, darlin' I'm so good. And I'm going to show you. I'm gonna be so good you'll never want to leave here. Ever.”

* * *

 

“NO!” Sherlock emerged with a gasping cry, the violence of the action throwing him off his narrow bunk to the concrete floor, wrenching his shoulder and knocking the back of his head. He lay still for several moments, breathing hard, then scrabbled onto his hands and knees and lurched for the toilet, where his body seized up as he vomited. But since there was nothing in his stomach to expel, he just dry-heaved painfully before collapsing back onto the floor. The concrete was cool against his cheek and he closed his eyes, shivering even as perspiration rose on his skin, turning him clammy.

 _Don’t nod out on the floor_ , whispered the voice.  _Idiot. Don’t be so obvious. Do you want them to search your cell? You’re in a lot of trouble for leaving me in the lurch like that, but I’ll punish you later. Get up. Get up!_

“Fuck off,” Sherlock slurred. “G ’way.”

 _Get up_ , the voice insisted. And then turned darker.  _NOW._

Groaning, Sherlock got to his hands and knees and crawled back to his bunk, awkwardly maneuvering himself onto it.

_Atta boy._

Sherlock retaliated by passing out.

 


	3. Chapter 3

He spent the next day thinking, fingers steepled under his chin. He'd gone to Moriarty to pass the time. To indulge some darker urges. He didn't like to think about John that way anymore. Once he started, it was difficult to stop and it became painful. It was easier — better — to focus on the present when it came to his beloved Watson. John had Mary now. John was going to be a father. And Sherlock would likely never see him again. It hadn't been confirmed yet, but Sherlock knew that Mycroft was pushing for Sherlock to undertake the mission in Eastern Europe. The one that would most likely see him dead after six months. It was that or spend life in prison for the murder of the most repugnant human being Sherlock had had the misfortune to meet.

_Murder. That was a public service if anything._

Jim had made an interesting proposition. A third option that allowed Sherlock to choose his path.

“Arrogant enough to believe I can choose my own death,” he murmured. “Neat.”

He'd always thought that he would die working. The mission would provide the ideal opportunity to “go down in flames,” so to speak. Sherlock had lived austerely as an adult. Denying himself basic comforts such as food and sex in order to sharpen his mind. But as a youth he had been more ... wanton. Mainly in regard to substance abuse. But to die in an imagined orgy of sex and drugs with the most interesting and dangerous man he'd ever known ... what was the saying? “There are worse ways to go.” But he needed more data first.

So he decided to go back and investigate further.

* * *

Upon entering the Mind Palace, Sherlock felt the immediate urge to open a door. He stepped into the room and saw Jim, resplendent in a bespoke gray suit, seated in front of a small table with a children’s board game in front of him. The frame was made of yellow plastic and had a timer built into it. The red surface was riddled with holes of various shapes. A small pile of plastic yellow pieces molded into the corresponding shapes lay next to the game.

Jim looked up at Sherlock, stone-faced. “Wanna play?” he droned.

“No,” Sherlock said, but he took the chair opposite Jim anyway.

“Are you sure? It’s awfully fun.” Jim’s fingers hovered over the timer. “More fun than the silly game you played with your brother a while back. I always thought the best part about Operation was killing the patient. This, however —” he wound the dial and it started ticking “— requires Perfection.”

Sherlock watched impassively as Jim began to slot the pieces into the correct holes. Faster than should be humanly possible. His hands were a blur. He inserted all the pieces except one. Jim cradled the last piece in his hand as the game’s sixty-second countdown ticked on.

“Don’t you want me to put it in?”

Sherlock shrugged dismissively. “I don’t care.”

“You lie, you lie, you big fat liar,” Jim sang, rolling the piece between his fingers.

The ticking grew louder and faster. Sherlock shifted in his seat.

“You and Mycroft used to play this as well. Mycroft was always faster. You complained that your hands were smaller and it wasn’t fair. Poor little Sherlock.” Jim shook his head sadly, frowning. “You got used to not being able to beat his time, but you wanted — needed — to at least get in before the buzzer. Or he’d tell you yet again how stupid you were.”

The ticking was unbearably loud now, yet Jim’s voice was perfectly measured and Sherlock could still hear him.

“Oh, for god’s sake!” Sherlock spat, getting out of his chair and reaching for Jim’s hand.

Jim hooted with amusement and snatched his arm away. “Come and get it, twerp!”

Sherlock snarled and launched himself at Jim, taking his chair over backwards, bringing them both crashing to the floor. Jim laughed hysterically as they wrestled, Sherlock desperately trying to open his closed fist to take the missing piece. The ticking sounded like a jackhammer, causing the walls to vibrate.

“GIVE IT TO ME!” Sherlock roared in a mix of fury and agony.

“Any second now!” Jim cheered, pinned under Sherlock, but still holding fast to the game piece. “She’s gonna —”

Just as it felt as Sherlock’s head was going to cave in, reducing the Mind Palace to mental rubble, the game buzzed merrily at its normal volume and the pieces exploded out of their slots and rained over the table and onto the floor.

“— blow.” Jim finished with a whisper. He opened his palm and held up the missing piece to Sherlock. “Here you go.”

“Fuck off,” Sherlock cursed, rolling off and laying next to Jim on the floor, clutching his head.

“It’s awful when you can’t  _put it in_ , isn’t it?” Jim cooed softly. “Like when I’ve finally got you riding me like yee-haw cowboy and you decide to go back to your cell. Bad form, Sherlock. You know I couldn’t let that stand.”

“It was too much. Too fast. And unlike last time —”

“— you could walk away,” Jim finished, sighing. “I know. It's detestable for me, you know. I don't like not having total control.”

“I cannot think of a more obvious statement,” Sherlock muttered, rubbing his temples.

Jim turned his head to look at the detective and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. “Oh, I think I can. How about 'Sherlock and Jimmy, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!'”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and turned to return Jim's gaze. “Were you always this ridiculous?”

Jim shrugged. “You seem to remember me this way. But there's something else you oughta remember, Sherlock. Something that gives me more control than you'd like. Even in this mind prison of yours.”

“And what is that, pray tell?”

“BORING!” Jim yelled, the exclamation echoing in the room. “You have to guess. It's sexier that way. C'mon, a little foreplay never hurt anyone.”

Sherlock shrugged carelessly. “I don't know. Or, more precisely, I don't care.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “God, you must have been the most insufferable teenager EVER. I could smack you. I might later. Think, doofus. The pool. The hotel room. The roof. Even here — right here, right now.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, pressing his lips together grimly.

“Ah, you know, but you're not gonna say it. Stubborn Sherlock.” Jim reached over to grip Sherlock's shirt-front, using the leverage to slide his own body up close. So close their foreheads were nearly touching. Jim closed the distance so his lips brushed against Sherlock's when he whispered, “You remember all those years ago? I said we were made for each other. And you always come back to me. Always. Even after I died, you locked me away for safekeeping. Chained me up like a pet. John would never let you do that to him ...”

Sherlock shuddered. “I needed to be able to examine —”

“— you always come back,” Jim interrupted. And smiled, letting the tip of his tongue flick over Sherlock's lower lip. “Sometimes you just come.”

“You speak as though I had a choice,” Sherlock whispered, reaching out and gripping the silk tie around Jim's neck, wrapping it around his fingers and pulling the knot tighter, but also pulling Jim closer.

Jim swallowed at the pressure on his throat and smirked. “There's always a choice, Sherlock. Though when you're on the side of the angels it's little more constricted. Mmm, speaking of which ... tie-play again? You know I kept that one until the day I died ... the one decorated with your spunk when I deflowered you. You going to choke me now? Like you did with your cock last time? I can't die a second time, so if erotic asphyxiation is your jam, I can indulge you.”

Sherlock's lip curled.

“Or maybe I can die a second time,” Jim whispered. “Do you want to try?” He captured Sherlock's lips in a deep, tender kiss.

Sherlock made to answer, but the slow stroke of Jim's tongue inside his mouth, and warm lips against his, drove all speech from him. They gripped each other in a deadlock: Jim's hand fisted in Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock holding fast to Jim's tie, kissing languidly, unhurriedly. Until finally Sherlock let it break, breathless. “Even in my head you're still trying to kill me.”

Jim licked his lips. “Of course. I spent our entire acquaintance trying to exterminate you. Well, when I wasn't being your booty call. Are you going to let me?”

“Kill me?”

“Yes. I'll make it so good.” Jim nuzzled into Sherlock's neck. “Your mind palace was always the sexiest part of you. I love your cock and your sweet arse, but mainly because when I fuck them, it fucks with your head. I've been fucking your mind from the moment I learned of your existence. What's left for you out there with the ordinary people? John's ruined you.”

Sherlock growled in the back of his throat.

“There it is again,” Jim intoned. “That was an emotional response, Sherlock. He did that to you. Funny, isn't it? All this time he thought I'd be the one to wreck you. But no. You got attached. And you expected he'd still be there waiting for you after two long years. When you were supposedly _dead_.” He hissed the last word. “Ordinary people put on fancy clothes and stand up in front of all the other ordinary people they know and they take a vow. You know what it is, Sherlock. You were there when John said it. Right by his side. As he promised himself to another.”

“Until death do us part,” Sherlock murmured, clutching Jim's tie a little more tightly.

“They're quitters,” Jim snarled. “Death ... what is it? Nothing to people like us. Like you and me. We don't have to say the words, Sherlock. We've taken our vows. You vowed to stop me and I vowed to destroy you. And so it goes on. I made you watch me blow out the back of my skull to prove that point. You can't stop me. And now, I don't even think you want to anymore. What are you without me?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Shut up.”

“And what are you without Johnny-boy by your side? He's got Mary now. Oh, that Mary, Mary, quite contrary.” Jim raised his eyebrows. “She's already tried to kill you once. Shot you point-blank and you still lived! Do you know how frustrating that is? The way you keep _living_.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and Jim threw him a disgusted look. “Rhetorical, Sherlock. Rhetorical. Now take me somewhere more comfortable than this hard floor covered in plastic projectiles.”

Sherlock looked at Jim, questioningly.

“You're going to fuck me now, aren't you? I know you are. And I'm going to let you. And then you're going to make up your mind. Unlike everyone else, I won't make you choose between me or the drugs. You can have both. One final fix for the final problem.”

Sherlock took a shaky breath and closed his eyes.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Something to Return to" attempts to keep in step with the timelines in "His Last Vow" and "The Abominable Bride," but small details will start to veer off here and there. John will come to know things here that were a surprise to him in the special, but don't you think they had should have had a more private final meeting while Sherlock was locked up?

_Sherlock? Sherlock! It's me ..._

Someone was calling his name.  _John. John?_  Everything faded away and when Sherlock opened his eyes he was looking at the cinderblock wall of his cell.

“Sherlock! For god’s sake, I had to jump through far too many of Mycroft’s hoops to get in here, so bloody wake up!”

“John,” Sherlock croaked. He slowly and awkwardly sat up and scrubbed at his eyes, finally seeing John Watson standing just inside the door of his cell. In flagrant violation of protocol, but Sherlock Holmes was not a typical prisoner. And Mycroft Holmes was not a typical official. Sherlock pushed a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to tame it, and stood up, noting the silhouette of a guard just outside the tiny window in the thick door. “What are you doing here?”

“Making sure they’re not beating you with the rubber hose in their spare time,” John remarked dryly. “Jesus, you look like shit.”

“It’s prison, John,” Sherlock said, pausing to pour some water from the single tap into a dented paper cup and drinking it to sluice his dry throat, which he then cleared. “What did you expect?” He shuffled closer.

John’s eyes narrowed and when Sherlock got close enough he grabbed Sherlock by the chin and stared hard into his eyes. “Are … for god's sake, are you high, Sherlock?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock scoffed. “Once again, I’m in prison, John. Solitary. Even if I wanted to use drugs, how would I get them?”

“Once again, I’m not as stupid as you think,” John growled. “Your pupils are the size of dinner plates. And they tell me you sleep seventy-five percent of the time.”

“Not my fault they can’t tell the difference between sleeping and thinking,” Sherlock replied. “What did you expect them to see? That I’m practising my dance steps? Doing Tae Bo? What else is there to do in here except think and sleep? They won’t even let me have my books. I could paper-cut myself to death. Choke on the binding. May I have my face back, please.”

Disgusted, John pushed Sherlock away and held out his hand. “Give it here.”

“Give what?” asked Sherlock petulantly.

“You know, Sherlock. We've been over this. I know you're clever. I'd be a fool to think that prison walls could stop you from getting what you wanted, but you'd be an even bigger fool to think I'll turn a blind eye to it. I'm your doctor. I'm your friend.”

A awkward pause fell in the space where the unspoken words of _I was your lover_ hovered in the air.

Sherlock shrugged.

“Give. It. Over,” John ground out, shoving his hand in Sherlock's face.

“What for?”

“Because it's poison, Sherlock. And ... my god, YOU KNOW WHAT FOR!”

“Oh, what does it  _matter_?” Sherlock shouted, wheeling away and pacing the narrow confines of the cell. “Why should you care? It’s not like I can do anything useful in here.”

“Why should I —” John started incredulously, then pressed a finger against his lips and hummed in the back of his throat “— why should I care? How can you ask me that?”

“Because I’m stoned,” Sherlock sneered, adopting a stereotypical hippie drawl. “Because I’m seeing rainbows and smelling colours. It’s totally groovy, man.”

“Stop it,” said John tightly. “Just stop it. And give it to me.”

Sherlock glared at John, huffing angrily through his nose and John stared back, stone-faced.

Sherlock backed down first. “Fine ... FINE. For god's sake ...” He moved to the corner, lifted up a perfectly crafted, previously invisible panel in the floor and pulled out two vials of clear liquid and a syringe wrapped in a handkerchief. He thrust it out at John. “Take it already.”

John carefully accepted the items, noting the pointed end of the needle before very carefully stowing the gear in his coat pocket. “Is that all?”

“Would you care to perform a cavity search or check the rest of the floor for hidey holes? Because you won't believe me if I tell you that's all.”

“Maybe I'll just have them turn out the room once I leave.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Fine.”

“Jesus,” said John. “Can you not be a prat for five minutes?”

“I'm sorry, John. Is my reaction to the complete and utter loss of my personal freedom inconvenient for you?”

“No, of course not,” exclaimed John. “In fact that's why I’m here —”

“Yes, why are you here, exactly?” Sherlock interrupted. “If it’s to tell me what an idiot I am, I’ll pass, thank you. Have received more than enough of that from Mycroft.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, I’m here to thank you!” John cried out. “What you did, my god, what you did … you gave up everything, Sherlock … for her …”

Sherlock looked at John for several moments, astonished. And then he murmured, almost inaudibly, “For you.”

“Excuse me?” John asked.

“I did it for you!” Sherlock blurted.

John stared at Sherlock, his steely blue eyes suddenly shining with tears.

“I did it for you, John,” Sherlock repeated again, looking down and rubbing the back of his neck. “And for Mary and the baby, of course. But I mainly did it for you. So you could be free. Truly free. Of Magnussen. Of Mary’s past. And, as a by-product … of me.”

“Sherlock,” John whispered, “I would never ask you —”

“I never would have asked you to shoot and kill a man on the first day of our acquaintance,” Sherlock interrupted. “I asked many ridiculous things of you that day, but never that. But you did it anyway. Gave me several more good years of life — of death, too. But it was just a stay of execution, John. I must insist you that you let me return the favour. Only you will get your full life. I promise you that. A good long life. For a good man.” He swallowed. “The best man.”

“My god, they’re not going to execute you, Sherlock,” John rasped, blinking hard. “Don’t be so dramatic. You know there’s no death penalty in England. That’s the other reason I’m here. I have, well, some good news.”

Sherlock let out a sharp bark of laughter and sat on the bunk. “I stand to be formally charged with murder, John. Tell me what news could possibly be good.”

“Mycroft’s arranged it,” John began and Sherlock bit back a wry smile. “He has a mission for you. In Eastern Europe, I think. He didn’t give me many details, but that in return for executing this mission, your name will be cleared.”

“Excellent word choice.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Sherlock,” John said softly, stepping closer again. “I know it’s not ideal. I can’t go with you. I would, but Mycroft won’t allow it and … there’s Mary and the baby. But I couldn’t bear the idea of you spending your life in prison. When you saved my family. And for you it would be —”

“Living death,” Sherlock finished. “I agree. A mission is far preferable.”

John stepped even closer and cupped Sherlock’s cheek in his hand. Sherlock looked up, surprised. “John … don’t …”

“I told you once … to your bloody fake headstone, that I owe you so much,” John whispered, his voice trembling. “That was nothing compared to what I owe you now.”

Sherlock tried to shake his head, but John held it in place, stroking the line of his cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.

“Can we say we’re even, at least?” whispered Sherlock, trying to keep his voice steady. “Your dead cabbie for my dead media mogul. My voluntary exile in exchange for two years of pretending to be dead?”

“All right, dammit,” John choked, smiling as tears finally overflowed from his eyes and streamed down his face. “We’re bloody even. And it's not exile. You'll be back. Of course you'll be back. You always bloody well come back to me.” And then he reached for Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the other man’s shoulders. Sherlock shuddered and allowed himself to embrace John, pressing the side of his face into the warm flannel of his shirt that covered his stomach. Breathing in his scent.

John breathed shakily, resting his cheek in Sherlock’s curls and kissing the top of his head.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“… I know.”

John nodded. It was the only thing Sherlock ever said in response to those words since Mary became part of the picture.

Sherlock pulled back slightly to look up at John. “When am I to leave?”

“In a few hours. Mary is coming out to the airfield … to say goodbye.”

“Then I imagine this will be our final moment alone …”

“Yes.”

Sherlock nodded. They exchanged a glance, then John cradled Sherlock’s face tenderly between his hands and leaned down to kiss him on the mouth. Sherlock trembled, letting out a soft, muffled sound and moved up into the kiss. They kept their mouths closed, letting only lips embrace, but the kiss lingered for long moments, and even after they parted, they pressed their foreheads together, eyes closed in long contemplation, John stroking Sherlock’s cheeks with his thumbs, and Sherlock gently holding John’s wrists.

A few moments later the guard banged on the door before opening it. “Time’s up, Dr. Watson. I’ve been instructed to take Mr. Holmes to the showers.”

John stepped away hastily, keeping his back to the guard as he wiped his face with the backs of his hands.

“Naturally,” Sherlock quipped. He stood, making a show of smoothing out the wrinkled fabric of his prison jumpsuit, tugging at the cuffs, and smoothing down his hair to draw the the guard’s attention his way while John pulled himself together. “My brother still believes that air travel requires a certain level of grooming.” He stepped forward to the guard and called over his shoulder. “John. See you on the tarmac.”

“Yes, yes,” John muttered, clearing his throat and following, keeping his gaze to the floor. “See you then.”

* * *

The guard led Sherlock to the empty shower area. “As usual, I’ve been authorized to give these for sole use here, under my supervision,” he said, hanging Sherlock a baggie with shampoo, soap, and a toothbrush.

“Of course,” Sherlock remarked. “Pity I wasn’t able to conduct an in-cell experiment testing the dissolving powers of shampoo on concrete in order to dig a tunnel with a toothbrush handle.”

The guard looked over his shoulder before reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a second baggie and handing it to Sherlock. “And here … in case you run out.”

Sherlock accepted the second offering, tucking the baggie with the tiny shampoo bottle of liquid and a new syringe in a toothbrush case under his arm. “Most thoughtful going-away present, Cyril. How is your sister?”

“Oh, doing very well, Mr. Holmes,” the guard said, smiling, ducking his head. “Very fine. Your recommendation landed her a job at the local bookie’s. She’s off the streets, off the skag, and back home with us again. Who knew she was so cracking with numbers?”

“Sometimes we don’t know our true strengths until someone gives us a chance explore them,” Sherlock replied. “She was a very valuable member of my network, but her services are no longer required. At any rate, I was loath to waste her potential. I’m certain this job is only the start of better things for her.”

“I wish there was more I could do, Mr. Holmes,” said Cyril, frowning. “Something more … useful than this. You know I don’t usually go in for this kind of thing … especially because of Frances …”

“Nothing is more useful than this, Cyril,” Sherlock said, shrugging out of his jumpsuit. “You worry about your sister and let my brother worry about me. I’ll be fine, don’t you worry. I’m all set. Your help is most appreciated.”

“All right,” said Cyril softly. “If you say so.” He turned his back, less for Sherlock’s modesty and more to keep an eye on the door. “Usual signal?”

“If you don’t mind. Oh, and Cyril? There actually is one more thing you can help me with.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes?”

“If you have a piece of paper and something to write with, I need to dictate something to you. A list.”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes. Whatever you need.”

Still tasting John’s tears on his lips, Sherlock moved into a shower stall, fingering the cocaine/morphine speedball cocktail and calculating the timing of the dosages.

_Saying proper goodbyes this time. Time to go._

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot, hot Mind Palace sex ...

_To the very best of times, John ..._

 

The plane lifted off and Sherlock closed his eyes.

When he opened them again he was standing in a hallway lined with more doors. Jim leaned casually against the wall, cleaning his nails with a jackknife. “'I'm leaving on a jet plane,'” he sang softly, mockingly. “Dunno when I'll be back again ...” He snapped the knife shut and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “You really are a dreadful date, you know. It's like having dinner with someone who keeps nipping to the loo to check Tinder and snort another line.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to stride down the hall. “Tinder barely existed before you killed yourself. Thank god. This way.”

Jim followed, but made a point of walking at a more casual pace, eventually forcing Sherlock to slow his step. “I took the opportunity to go through some more of your files. Janine ... now she was a lovely little piece. A woman after my own heart. You couldn't have thrown her a bone, 'Sherl'?” He tsked softly, shaking his head. “Missed opportunities are the real tragedy of life. Never been with a woman, huh? I could teach you some tricks ...”

“Enough,” said Sherlock tiredly.

“Like putty in your hands ...”

“Boring!”

“A little preoccupied, are we?” Jim smirked. “Oh, that John. Always makes things so serious and sad. Such a wet blanket. Him and Mary deserve each each other. Though I have to say that scene was truly touching.” Jim mock-sniffled and pretended to wipe a tear. “I had to take a moment!”

“Jealous?”

“Hardly,” Jim sneered. “Look where love has got you, Sherlock. On a suicide mission both inside and out. Was it really worth it?”

Sherlock cast him a look of pity. “The fact you have to ask answers that question quite adequately. There is nothing I wouldn't do to protect John Watson and isn't that lucky for you?”

“True, true,” Jim conceded, smiling. “Delivered you into my hands time and time again. And here we are!” He gazed about him as they strolled the endless hallway. “Haven't visited this wing yet. What about that Magnussen tosser? Surely you’ve got him stashed away in here somewhere. Probably has downright posh accommodations compared to mine. But I do pride myself on occupying the dungeon. It’s sexy, really. I feel like you really  _care_.”

Sherlock threw a sidelong glance at Jim. “And what do you  _care_  about him?”

“Oh, I care very much,” Jim replied sombrely. “Very much. I’d like to pay him a little visit. While I do respect that he completely put one over you. I mean, really, Sherlock. Secret vaults? John’s right — you really are a drama queen.”

“But …” Sherlock prodded.

Jim made a face. “But … ehhh, he’s weak. I like that he respects no one, like that a great deal, but I hate that he respects money.  _Business_.” He wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something foul. “So desperate … hanging around Downing Street ... wanting to be seen as  _legit_. That’s why I like you, sexy. You don’t give a fuck about being legitimized. We're so far above all that rubbish. What people _think_ about us. It’s why we’re consultants. If we do it well, then money is a by-product. _So_ much money. But it’s not the goal. A purist is never in it for the dosh.”

“Are you jealous of him, too?” Sherlock asked, amused. “That I went and found myself another nemesis after you died?”

Jim’s expression turned murderous. “I may be just an invention of your mind palace, Sherlock, but I still don’t take well to being insulted. Nemesis. _Please._ Ms. Mary had him snivelling on his knees — can you imagine what I could do to him with a single phone call? You blew his brains out during your first major confrontation. I had to blow my own out because you couldn't manage it. Don’t you dare compare us. No, I have a bone to pick with him because he put his hands on you. He wanted to have you. And you’re mine, Sherlock. I won’t have it.” Jim adjusted his cuffs, shaking his head. “And while you were drugged, no less. Pathetic. I had the balls and the skill to take you on at full mental capacity. And _I finished the job_.”

“But I was under duress, as previously mentioned,” Sherlock added.

Jim pulled a face. “Well, yeah. Duh. Pressure points, Sherlock. Magnussen knew about those. But he was so gauche about it. No class, those newspapermen. But that came in handy when I wanted to buy stories to put out into the world. He was all too happy to take my money. Again ... all about the money. _Boring_.”

“I imagine you were relieved when I executed him.”

“Oh, yes. Though relieved isn’t quite the correct word. I think perhaps proud. And horny. Extremely horny. Speaking of which … where the hell are we going?”

Sherlock opened a door and ushered Jim inside “Right. Here.”

Jim stepped inside and looked around slowly. He chuckled. “Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, you really are taking a trip down memory lane, aren't you?” He gazed around the replica of the room where Jim and Sherlock had had sex for the first time. “But that should be a green stripe on the wallpaper, not teal. Think Hyde Park in spring.”

“Right, of course,” Sherlock said, and the colour shifted appropriately.

“Nice, very nice,” Jim remarked, kicking off his shoes and pausing to pluck off his socks. “Even nicer not to have Doctor Watson eavesdropping the whole time. Though obviously that was necessary.” He sidled up to Sherlock and began to unbutton his shirt.

Sherlock watched impassively. “It all started here,” he remarked. “With you. I imagine life would have been simpler had this not all occurred. I never would have pursued a relationship with John.”

“Dull,” Jim replied, sliding his hands over Sherlock's chest and making to push the shirt off his shoulders. But Sherlock brought his hands down harshly inside the V of Jim's arms and shoved his hands away. Jim rolled his head with a soft crack and looked up at Sherlock curiously. “Oh, I see. You have a different plan for us? A revenge fantasy, perhaps? Rather cliché, but, as I said even when I was alive, you can do what you like to me.”

Now Sherlock was tugging off Jim's jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. “You told me to start undressing you and my hands were shaking. I remember that. And you loved it. Loved watching me surrender to you.”

“I won't lie, it was glorious, Sherlock,” Jim droned, allowing Sherlock to peel away the layers of clothing.

“It was all about me. You stripped me of everything: my clothes, my agency, my ... emotional and physical _detachment_. And it was fascinating. But I don't care to repeat the experience. Even when I came back to you the second time ... it was still about me. Trying to process what you'd done. And what was happening with John. This time, _James_ , is about you.”

Jim's mouth quirked. “Is that so?”

“Well, that's the hypothesis,” Sherlock said, loosening Jim's tie and lifting it over his head. “Can I have an experience with you here that had no actual basis in reality.” He roughly spun Jim around and pulled his arms back behind him, slipping the tie loop over Jim's wrists and fastening it tightly.

Jim made no move to struggle, allowing Sherlock to bind him. “Interesting, detective. Care to explain your method?”

“You got me to surrender with pleasure,” Sherlock, said, making sure Jim’s hands were lashed together tightly, but not so tight as to be painful. “I also found that fascinating. Simple to inflict pain on a captive — but to bring them pleasure? An entirely different challenge.”

“Is that what you intend for me?” Jim asked, resting his head against Sherlock’s shoulder as Sherlock, keeping one hand fast on Jim’s bound hands, used his free hand to stroke over the pale, firm length of his torso.

Sherlock shrugged, his long fingers tracing patterns over Jim’s taut flesh, then reaching up to tease a nipple. Jim’s muscles twitched almost imperceptibly. “Why not? It’s not boring. And we already know that you have mastered pain. I could literally tear you limb from limb and you’d never give me the satisfaction of breaking. And a revenge fantasy exists solely for that exquisite catharsis. But I think pleasure is different for you. Does anyone really master pleasure completely? You said it was like insanity — the very nature of insanity is wildness. That which cannot be controlled. It’s primal.”

“You’ve brought me pleasure before, honey. I still remember the first time I came inside you. Watching it drip out of your hole. All stretched and gorgeous. _Used_.”

Sherlock was still stroking Jim’s nipples, chest, and stomach, sometimes teasing the trail of hair into his trousers, but not breaching the fabric just yet. He leaned down slightly to let his lips graze Jim’s neck. “Yes. I have yet to make you come on my terms.”

“ _Your_ terms.” Jim snorted, though Sherlock again felt his body shift and strain minutely in response to the stimulus. “I’ll play your game, Sherlock. After all, that’s why I’m here. But I’ll warn you that I’ve taken more lovers than you’ve had hot dinners. You’re rather under-experienced for this.”

“I’m aware of the challenge,” Sherlock whispered, licking a stripe up Jim’s neck. “I relish it.”

“And if I win?”

Sherlock chuckled. “If you  _win_  … what?”

“If I win, you stay. Here, with me. Until you’re buried so deep in the Mind Palace that you are unrecoverable. You die. We’ll burn together.”

“And if I win?”

Jim shrugged. “You lock me up again. Walk away. Do what you like.”

Sherlock paused for a moment, then burst out laughing. He whipped Jim around to face him and the consulting criminal’s eyes were bright with mirth as he bit his lip mischievously.

“You don’t actually think I’m that much of an idiot, do you? This is my Mind Palace. There is no win or lose here,” Sherlock said. “Only what I decide. Only I can decide if I will burn with you.”

Jim shrugged, flicking his tongue against his upper lip. “Just testing, Sherlock,” he droned. “Always testing. You like it when I test you. When I push you. Could you actually bear to see me break? Could your fragile worldview handle it?”

“Only in one way,” Sherlock growled, pushing Jim in the direction of the bed and kneeing him down to bend over it.

Jim turned his head, pressing his right cheek into the mattress to gaze curiously at Sherlock over his shoulder.

Sherlock looked down at his prize and slid his hand over Jim’s back, before reaching around to unfasten his trousers and tug them off. “It wasn’t just about getting me to surrender,” he said quietly, stroking his hand over Jim’s pert, smooth white bottom. “And it wasn’t just being the first to bed me. No, you felt something that went beyond lust. Even beyond genuine desire. It took you by surprise. I saw it in your face. When your mask dropped for just a moment while you were fucking me. Perhaps your error was in not keeping me on my front.”

“'Hello, Jim,'” quoted the consulting criminal, a slow smile spreading over his face.

“Yes,” Sherlock continued, tugging Jim’s trousers completely off and knocking his legs apart, teasing a finger over his crack and down to fondle his balls. “You enjoyed my touch. My body. As much as you've enjoyed my mind. You wanted more. Which is why you invited me back.”

Jim shuddered as Sherlock fondled him, a soft sound catching in his throat.

“Maybe I come back to you,” Sherlock said, “but you need me to come back to you. You always said that you owe me. But in reality: You. Need. Me.”

"No, Sherlock," Jim whispered, letting out a shuddering sigh as Sherlock spread him open and licked him tenderly. "Did you forget? I'm you. Here in the Mind Palace. I'm truly you. And you are truly me. You. Need. Me. You're looking looking for a reason to stay here forever and I'm giving it to you ... ahhh ..." Jim shuddered again as Sherlock licked him harder, pressing his tongue inside. "You're nothing without me. And you know it. Do you think the real Jim Moriarty would let you do this?"

“Of course he would," Sherlock murmured, raising his head and reaching up to fondle Jim's cock, causing the smaller man to shudder again. “If it were part of the game. He would say anything. Do anything. This may be the Mind Palace, but don't try to convince me you're not as real as the man I saw die on the roof of Bart's." Sherlock straightened up, still on his knees and took out his cock, rubbing against Jim's hole, teasing. Jim pressed his face into the mattress. Sherlock spat into his hand and rubbed it over his cock as a pretence.

“I made it my business to know Jim Moriarty. For two years after he died, I lived and breathed him. Went the places he went. Consorted with the people he knew. All that data. I saved everything. I locked it away in the deepest mental chamber I possessed. I know you, Jim. And I knew you then. The moment you let your guard drop for that second ..." Sherlock took Jim's hips in his hands and pushed into him in one long thrust causing Jim to let out a low, keening moan of satisfaction. “And I knew you'd want this more than you could ever admit. All of the people you have been with ... there is only one ... who could just pin you down —" Sherlock thrust deeply inside “— and take you."

He expected Jim to shoot a comeback or cutting remark of some kind, but he was curiously speechless. But certainly not silent. Jim rolled his hips eagerly into each hard thrust, his face pressed into the mattress, letting out more of those low, hungry moans and Sherlock allowed himself to give in for a little while. To just lose himself in the sensation and the sight of Jim Moriarty, bound and taking Sherlock's cock up his tight little arse. The sounds he was making were delicious and he fought the urge to just pound into Jim until he lost control.

_Control._

_Oh, that little shit._

He pulled out abruptly and when Jim protested, Sherlock spanked him firmly on the arse, then reached to untie his wrists.

“For Christ's sake, Sherlock, can you for once _finish_ something? Or is your revenge fantasy to just give me blue balls for all eternity?”

“On your back, up by the headboard,” Sherlock ordered. “Hands over your head.”

Jim complied and smirked as Sherlock retied him, lashing him to the bedpost. “Can't get enough of this face, huh? Few would blame you.”

Sherlock snorted. “You think you can play the wanton and get me to blow my load like a teenage boy.”

Jim shrugged and smiled flirtatiously. “It's worked before.”

“I'm not the blushing virgin I was the first time we were in this room.”

Jim flicked the tip of his tongue against his top lip and looked at Sherlock with his best bedroom eyes. “Oh, I'm counting on it, honey.”

Sherlock leaned down and kissed and nibbled at the pale length of Jim's neck and fondling his nipples into hard pebbles until Jim moaned impatiently, struggling against his bonds. And when Sherlock licked down the length of his torso, Jim pressed his head back into the pillow and sighed, “Oh, fuck yes” as Sherlock took his hard cock deep into his mouth.

Sherlock slid his large hands under Jim's bottom and fondled his buttocks and continued to suck him hard and fast while he teased Jim's hole, eventually slipping a finger in to stroke him from the inside. Jim's back arched in ecstasy as Sherlock's head bobbed on his dick. Sherlock kept up the pace until he felt Jim's body tense up in a pre-orgasmic flush, and then Sherlock stopped. Everything.

Jim's body sagged and he glared up at Sherlock, gasping, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Sherlock's mouth quirked very slightly. “Shut up. Now slick up my cock so I can screw you some more. We're going to be here for a while.” And he straddled Jim's torso and shifted up so his cock brushed against Jim's lips. Jim looked up at Sherlock and smirked slightly, an unspoken expression of _all right, arsehole, we'll do it your way_ flickering across his face, and he slowly opened his mouth, letting Sherlock slide inside.

Sherlock held onto the headboard and fucked Jim's mouth in slow, deep strokes, often to the point of choking him, but when he lifted up again, Jim sucked in a gulp of air only to greedily take Sherlock in again.

“I think I like you best this way,” Sherlock gasped. “You're much more pleasant when your mouth is being kept busy. I might do this to you every day.”

Jim responded by humming around his cock and doing something so extraordinary with his tongue that Sherlock had to pull out to collect his wits.

He reached down and fisted Jim's erection, stroking it until Jim squirmed and blurted out a stream of very Irish invective before Sherlock spread his legs open and slipped back inside. Jim groaned, arching up as Sherlock began to move. He leaned down and kissed Jim's lips tenderly before murmuring, “If you want to come, you'll have to beg for it. Ask me nicely. Say _please_.”

“Fuck. You,” Jim whispered sweetly, giving Sherlock one of his sunniest smiles.

“Maybe later, but right now I'm rather busy fucking _you_ ,” Sherlock quipped.

Jim rolled his eyes.

* * *

Several more times he raised Jim right up to the quivering point of climax, only to let him crash down again. Not that it was easy for Sherlock. But the fury on Jim's face each time it happened made it worth it. Sherlock was convinced he could go on this way for quite some time, but he could tell that the other man's resolve was threatened. And every time Sherlock reminded Jim of what he needed to say in order to find release, his disagreement held less and less vitriol.

Sherlock had found the rhythm and angle of thrust that was unravelling Jim, but would not undo him completely. Sherlock wanted to come, to let himself go in Jim’s tight heat, but he didn’t want it nearly as much as he wanted to win this game. He glanced down, taking in the sight of Jim’s cock lying hard and heavy and leaking against his firm stomach. It wouldn’t take much, Sherlock estimated. A few quick strokes to take him over the edge. He looked at Jim’s face, his own expression curling into a smirk. Jim’s facial expression was blank, but he couldn’t maintain the dead-eyed stare he normally wore so well. Sherlock read the unconscious plea in the dark depths and the tiny muscles worrying around his mouth.

“Say it,” Sherlock said softly, with a cruel smile. He was greatly enjoying Jim's helplessness, the splay of his legs as Sherlock sank into him again and again.

“Never. You’ll have to come sometime, Sherlock. You can’t keep this up.” The reply was determined, but Jim was unable to keep the tremoring out of it.

 _He is doubting_.

“No, but I can keep going longer than you can bear to resist.” Sherlock dipped in a little deeper and twisted his hips to hit Jim in another way and his mouth twisted into a sneer when Jim cried out, then bit his lip, glaring at Sherlock.

But the glare melted into a look of helpless torment as Sherlock picked up the pace, rocking into Jim relentlessly, but still not enough. Sherlock reached down with his free hand, fingers lightly caressing Jim’s upper thigh. Nearly ghosting over his erection, but always withholding the touch he craved.

Jim grunted. “Ugh, p—” He cut himself off.

“What did you say?” Sherlock gasped, taking his hand away and focusing his laser-like gaze on the other man’s face. His trembling mouth.

Jim pressed his lips together defiantly, but Sherlock could feel the man’s smaller body shaking underneath his weight. Sweat beaded Jim’s brow. His hips eagerly rocking up to receive each thrust. So hungry.

Sherlock leaned in close and kissed Jim deeply. Jim responded with an unconscious moan that could be classified as pornographic. Their tongues tangled and danced and Sherlock sucked on Jim’s lower lip before cradling his face between his hands, forcing Jim to stare up at him. Sherlock kissed him again and whispered against his mouth, “Say it. And mean it. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Jim grimaced, but then Sherlock felt something go loose in the body pinned under his. Sherlock had watched Jim Moriarty’s face morph into a thousand different expressions, but he had never seen this one before. Not even when Jim had joyfully fucked Sherlock’s brains out all that time ago.

He stared into Jim's eyes and watched a hundred emotions flicker across his face. His jaw clenched and then he took a quick, sharp breath. “Please,” he whispered.

“Please, what?” Sherlock asked softly, his hips rolling gently, stroking into Jim again and again.

Jim's mouth twisted as if to argue, but instead he tossed his head in frustration and moaned, “Please let me come. For fuck's sake, Sherlock, please ...”

“That's better,” Sherlock whispered. And he kissed Jim again — just long enough to taste him before he wrapped his fingers around Jim's leaking cock and stroked it in time with his thrusts and just moments later, Jim Moriarty nearly sobbed as he came, cursing Sherlock's name, and the hard, clutching ripple of his muscles around Sherlock's cock took him over as well and they both cried out with unconscious abandon as they shook apart against each other.

And then there was silence save for the sound of their panting breaths. A few moments later, Sherlock pull out and rolled off Jim, flopping onto his back.

“Yes,” he gasped. “This is definitely how I want to go.”

Jim turned his head to look at Sherlock. “So it's agreed.”

“It is agreed. This is how we end. I've no need for anything out there.”

“This changes nothing, you know,” Jim droned, stretching his naked limbs, but making no move to struggle against his bonds, “between you and I. You think you  _won_  because you got me to ask nicely for an orgasm? That was just a fantasy about turning the tables.”

“I  _won_ , because I got you to surrender,” Sherlock remarked. “But I think of it more as evening the score.”

“Traditionally, this is when we enjoy the post-coital cigarette. Don’t tell me the Mind Palace is non-smoking.”

“On the contrary …” Sherlock said, chuckling. He sat up, but then froze at a sound.

A phone was ringing. Outside of the Mind Palace

Jim’s eyes darted to Sherlock. “Don’t answer that.”

“I’ve only been in the air four minutes,” Sherlock murmured. “Something’s happened.”

“No, Sherlock,” Jim said, more firmly, struggling to free his hands. “Don’t you dare. You already made your choice.”

“They made me surrender my mobile. Only Mycroft could be calling me on the plane,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes sparking with intrigue.

“Sherlock!” Jim screeched. “You promised!”

But then Sherlock disappeared and Jim was alone once again.

 


	6. Chapter 6

_He’ll come back. There can’t possibly be anything on the end of the phone line that can interest him as much as staying high and having a suicide orgy with me. This is how we end. We decided. He_ always  _comes back to me._

Jim felt a release of pressure on his wrists, looked up, and saw that his hands were free. Sherlock was no longer concentrating on him hard enough to maintain that fiction. He listened carefully, but couldn’t make out what was happening. Sherlock wasn’t storing the information here. Jim pulled on his trousers and flung open the door, taking off down the hall at a full run. He was going by instinct, his heartbeat pounding in his ears until something inside told him to stop at a door. He pushed it open and heard Sherlock and Mycroft speaking.

“SHERLOCK!” Jim shrieked. He began pacing the room, smacking his hands to his head, pulling at his hair.

“As it turns out, you’re needed,” Mycroft’s voice echoed.

“For god’s sake, make up your mind,” came Sherlock's voice, disgusted. “Who needs me this time?”

“Sherlock …” Jim whispered.

And then his world exploded. The walls began to shake and crumble. Jim leaped out of the way to avoid a disintegrating column, then rolled to take shelter under a sturdy table. A siren sounded so loudly that it felt like it was inside his head.

_Or maybe it is. Our head. I’m of him and he is of me._

NEW INPUT

NEW INPUT

NEW INPUT

This was big. A new room would be built for whatever Sherlock was learning right now. Maybe a wing. Jim pressed his head into the floor and wailed in despair. And then, over the din, he heard the voice. Distorted, synthetic, veering in pitch between high and squeaky and low and demented. And then he peeked out from under the table and saw a huge projection on the only wall that was still intact.

_Did you miss me?_

_Did you miss me?_

_Did you miss me?_

And his face.

“No,” Jim muttered, crawling out from under the table and getting to his feet, no longer caring about falling debris. “It’s not possible.” He screamed furiously, clenching his fists. “IT’S NOT POSSIBLE!”

“Not impossible, just improbable,” Sherlock said, having appeared back in the room as quickly as he left. He was fully dressed now, the collar popped on the Belstaff and his shoes polished to a high sheen. His working uniform. His armour. “And you know what I say about the improbable.”

Jim turned, chest heaving, glaring at Sherlock. “It’s not fair!” he spat.

“Don’t be a child,” Sherlock chided, stepping over a broken chair. “What do you care about fair play?”

“Bollocks, Sherlock. I’ve always played fair with you. Made it so you had a fighting chance with that brain of yours. Always gave you just enough time to come up with something  _clever_. Maybe that was my mistake. Needing to watch you  _dance_. That gave me a bigger hard-on than anything else you had to offer. And this isn’t fair.”

Sherlock angled his head, looking back at the projection on the wall. “You want to talk fair? You’ve been trying manipulate me into killing myself for the past week. And I was going to, but this is far more interesting than dying. And Jim … James Moriarty …” Sherlock pointed to the portrait “… that is you.”

Jim shook his head, looking up at Sherlock with hooded eyes. “No, it’s not. Not really. And you know it.”

“But it will be you,” Sherlock whispered, stepping closer and cradling Jim’s chin in his palm of his hand. “I thought your file was closed, but no … there’s more. And I’m going to find it. If I don't OD first. But I reckon I should land in time for John to tend to me.” Sherlock’s face lit up with delight. “And I can’t leave you running loose. So … off you pop.”

Jim looked at Sherlock, stricken, and backed away. “No … no, Sherlock … not that …”

Sherlock shrugged.

“ _Please,”_  Jim whispered desperately, falling to his knees.

Sherlock closed his eyes. And everything faded to black.

* * *

Jim started screaming before he even opened his eyes. He felt the weight of the collar and chain around his neck and he knew exactly where he was. His arms bound by the straitjacket. He thrashed and flailed, bellowing Sherlock’s name until he was exhausted and lay in a limp heap, gasping for air, his face dripping with sweat. After a few minutes he got his feet under him and began to pace the room as he often did, as far as the length of chain permitted. Over time Jim began to mutter to himself in a compulsive manner. “S’all right. S’fine. He always comes back to me in the end. Mmm-hmm, always comes back. Always always always. Mmm-hmm.”

Time passed. Hours. Possibly days. Jim was never quite sure. Sherlock placed little value on the concept of time in the Mind Palace. But Jim stopped and leaned against the padded wall, his long eyelashes fluttering as he closed his eyes, thinking for a moment. And then he started to giggle. And the giggle turned into a belly laugh. Which evolved into something far more maniacal. He collapsed to the floor, rolling in laughter until he finally he gasped aloud. “Oh, good heavens, what  _did_  I get up to this time? YOU BETTER FIND OUT, SEXY!”

_I’m not finished yet, apparently._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience as I completed this. A special thanks to debunker, whose message actually prodded me to write that last bit that was giving me some bother. It was lovely coming back to Broken Toy and continuing the story on, even if it was a little different with the Mind Palace. Mind Palace Jim is still Jim to me, though.
> 
> Title inspired by "Touchstone," a stunning little song by Amor de Días
> 
> Before the thoughts pass your lips  
> Reach out with your mind, fingertips  
> It can be done  
> Feel it now, I can sense somebody here  
> Only passing  
> It's really nothing  
> Something to leave with you  
> Something to return to


End file.
